Wedding Season Part 2

It seems that the 20-second wrap-pleat-tuck-and-drape sequence that looked so effortless in the shop must come with a lifetime of practice. They had offered to sew in the pleats for me, but that sounded like it would be taking away from the authenticity of the experience. The offer of sending someone to the hotel to dress me, also sounded a little too indulgent. Imagine braving the Delhi traffic for a 20-second duty.

Well, getting into the sari in my hotel room was a rather more complicated process than I thought. The person, who housekeeping sent up after my frantic call, was as flummoxed by the slippery, heavily-embroidered material, in spite of being dressed in a sari herself. Hers, part of the uniform, was a much simpler, lighter affair but she confessed that she arrived at work an hour earlier to dress. Half an hour, some compromise and many safety pins later, I reasonably resembled the real thing.  I decided to leave my camera behind at the hotel, unsure of how I would manage taking photographs while trying to negotiate my way around without stepping onto my sari and coming undone.

My daughter, who was dressed in a sort of Indo-Western fashion, didn't have the same navigation concerns and could wield her camera more easily. Our first function was the Sangeet, attended by about 2 000 guests. I alternated between gawking at all the beautiful people around me and at the decorations. Flowers adorned every surface, competing for attention with colourful chandeliers hanging from the ceilings. There was enough lights, music and dancers with bare midriffs for a Bollywood movie set. It took us at least an hour to distinguish the bride and groom amongst all the other leading stars gathered around.

In spite of all the glitz and glamour, the evening was relaxed and friendly and we made many new friends who had also been wandering around gawking, to keep us company over the following few days of celebration. At the end of the evening, heaving a sigh of relief that I had not unravelled, I leaned over sideways and flopped into the back of the car...not quite as Grace Kelly would have done it. 

Hamba Kahle, Madiba

Kruger Park July 2013

We sat quietly, each one with their own thoughts, watching the sun sink down into the land which stretched before us. The silence of the bush seemed appropriately reverent. Far from the city lights and noise, we said goodbye and thank you to Madiba.

It was the first week in July and Madiba had been very ill. Everyone thought that his death was imminent. We were in the Kruger for three days and were out of cell phone range. We asked our game ranger to please inform us if he heard any news. We had just stopped at this spot when he told us that he had a radio message that Nelson Mandela had died. This piece of land, which belonged to all of us, thanks to the sacrifice and forgiveness of Nelson Mandela and others who had strived for freedom alongside him, seemed the best place to say farewell. 

When we returned to camp, it was a very apologetic ranger who confessed that there had been confused messages heard on the radio. In light of the seriousness of his condition, though, we all felt at peace with the time we had spent saying goodbye. In the months that followed, when there were rumours about his condition, news of fighting over his legacy and speculations over whether he was still alive, I felt fortunate to have had that opportunity to meditate on what he had meant to us. 

Last night I was sad to hear the news of his death, but this afternoon when I stood on the Jammie steps at UCT, the sadness was mixed with pride and a deep gratitude that I was able to stand on those steps as a free South African. Hamba Kahle, Madiba. Thank you for your sacrifice, your ability to forgive, your inspiration and the wisdom with which you guided us to democracy. May we never forget.